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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25106491">The Secrets We Keep</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebaek/pseuds/bubblebaek'>bubblebaek</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Minor Character Death, References to Depression, The Author Regrets Everything, World of Magic, author makes the plot up as she writes, dotae, sorcery, sorry abt this, taeyong tsun even though the thought of it Is enough to make me laugh, there's a minor wound in chap 3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:08:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25106491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebaek/pseuds/bubblebaek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Taeyong meets Doyoung, he’s covered in blood and twigs. He’s sitting on Yuta’s couch, legs folded up into his chest, rocking back and forth to keep his body from giving out completely.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Nakamoto Yuta, Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. if he loses a limb, that's on you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Reader, I'm sorry if you wanted something complete. This fic is largely a result of my own boredom and desire to read self-indulgent dotae. I do not claim to be an organised writer. If I was, maybe my prose would be more than just spicy makeout + bickering.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Taeyong is eighteen when he leaves home. </p><p>It comes as no surprise to the rest of his family. It has long been foretold that the young master will not return. </p><p>The night he packs his bags, Taeyong is certain of two things. The first is that he will never be the same again. Years of being groomed into sorcery have taught him that he must keep his secrets locked up and out of sight. No degree of rebellion would change that. The second is that while magic is in his blood, it is no longer in his destiny. Things used to be a lot easier when people would tell him what he should want, what he should be. Now, he’s not so sure. It feels like someone has impelled him past the edge of a cliff and sent him flailing downwards into a curious darkness. </p><p>He gets a part time job at the University library––the same university his parents fought so hard to keep him from attending. His powers, now dormant from lack of use, remain nothing but a pretty weapon in his armory. Yuta joins him, but Taeyong can sense the restlessness behind his facade. They would never agree on it, but Taeyong knows that Yuta lives and breathes dark magic. It would be unfair of him to ask his best friend to leave that part of himself behind. </p><p>‘Our pasts are behind us, Taeyong,’ Yuta would say to him on days when Taeyong feels like he can’t breathe. ‘You, of all people, must know that we can choose to control the things that haunt us.’ </p><p>In time, Taeyong learns to dream less of decaying flowers and even numbers. He even begins practicing magic in isolation. His mother always said he had a soft core. It’s my favorite part of you, Taeyong. Don’t let the world take that away from you. So Taeyong built himself a hard exterior––coated with spikes and spells and anything else that he believed would keep people away––and resolved that he would never again let love put him on his knees. </p><p>***</p><p>The first time Taeyong meets Doyoung, he’s covered in blood and twigs. He’s sitting on Yuta’s couch, legs folded up into his chest, rocking back and forth to keep his body from giving out completely. Yuta ducks down next to him, concern evident in the way his voice sounds, grated and apologetic. “I’m going to run down to the pharmacy. Doyoung will stay with you, it’ll be okay.” </p><p>Taeyong wants to reach out to him, tell him it’ll be alright, but his voice is frozen in his throat and the parts of his body that don’t hurt seem to have taken on a strange paralysis. <br/>Taeyong doesn’t remember falling asleep. In fact, he doesn’t remember much from that night, except waking up in someone else’s bed the next morning. Light streams in from the surrounding windows, casting unfamiliar shadows over the film posters and pictures that cover the walls. A Kiiroitori blanket is tucked into his chest and piano music hums softly from the speakers beside him. </p><p>Ambling into Yuta’s room, he finds his best friend slumped over a textbook. The cup of coffee next to him has gone cold and the table lamp on his desk flickers menacingly every few seconds. The place looks different from the last time Taeyong was here. Clutter is Yuta’s natural habitat, but judging by the banana peel rotting by the side of the heater and the pile of clothes strewn around the floor, Taeyong has a feeling they are no longer in familiar territory. </p><p>‘You look like shit,’ Taeyong mutters, settling down gingerly by the side of his bed. </p><p>‘Pot, kettle, black,’ Yuta doesn’t look up, the back of his head still facing the door. </p><p>‘I nearly died. What’s your excuse?’ </p><p>Yuta rolls his chair around to knock painfully into Taeyong’s knees. ‘My excuse is that you nearly died.’ </p><p>Taeyong looks away. His body aches all over and he’s in no mood to argue. He knows Yuta blames him for being too proud to ask for help––an accusation Taeyong found to be only partly true, because if there was anything Taeyong hated more than asking for help, it was being wrong. And he wasn’t wrong. </p><p>‘You need to stop doing this to yourself, Taeyong,’ Yuta sighs, pushing his hair back. It’s grown longer since the last time Taeyong saw him. ‘It won’t bring him back.’ </p><p>‘I think you should clean your room, Nakamoto,’ </p><p>‘Fine,’ Yuta growls. ‘Deflect. But know this: you’re going to get yourself killed if you keep this up and I’m not always going to be around to clean your mess.’ </p><p>Taeyong shrugs, legs still sore from last night. ‘You can join the seancé next time. All bets are off on whether you’ll live though,’</p><p>It’s a compromise and Yuta knows it, which is why he rolls his chair back around. ‘You better come up with an explanation for Doyoung. He slept on the couch for you.’ </p><p>Heading towards the kitchen, Taeyong finds Yuta’s roommate boiling ramen by the stove. He’s a few inches taller than Yuta is, dark hair spilling across his forehead elegantly. Offering Taeyong a pear, he scans him up and down for signs of visible damage. Taeyong feels exposed. The rational part of his brain is screaming at him, telling him to apologise, but it’s hard to concentrate on much else when Doyoung Kim looks like...that. </p><p>‘If you leave now you might make it to the station on time,’ Doyoung finally says, breaking the silence that hangs between them. </p><p>‘Huh?’ Taeyong blinks, and then squints at his phone. ‘Fuck!’ </p><p>Doyoung grants the older boy a wane smile. ‘You won’t be late. Not if you run.’ </p><p>*** </p><p>Taeyong is running. His dreams often begin this way. </p><p>He’s back in the hell-forest, footsteps thundering behind him like raindrops beating against a metallic roof. The sun is no longer in sight. Any glimpse of the stars lurking above are hidden underneath a heavy canopy of leaves. The light that streams through the gaps is faint, barely enough to locate his steps, but he manages to keep his pace. </p><p>'Taeyong! Faster!' </p><p>Ten rushes over, leaning over Taeyong as he heaves into the ground. His legs are on fire and he can feel his blood run thick in his veins. The sounds of the forest are amplified, each crunch, splash and groan reverberating through his body like a shockwave. Ravens circle above the clearing, flying low in the sky, cawing as if to remind him of a world that exists outside dreams. <br/>Taeyong is a coward, but what good will bravery do him now, when he knows nothing will have prepared him for this? </p><p>'Ten,' He whispers, breath misting in the night air as he exhales shakily into frigid palms. 'You need to run. I can’t go on like this.' </p><p>Ten shakes his head, firm. He is stubborn, even in Taeyong’s nightmares. 'I’m not leaving you. We can’t elope separately, that’s preposterous. Who will I use my good looks on?'</p><p>Taeyong gazes up at him, straining his neck painfully to take in the view. Ten is beautiful, even from this angle where nobody should look good; even in this pallid light, where the moon and stars are nowhere to be found and the sound of the Coven’s footsteps creeps towards them with increasing tenacity. His tilted eyes are sharp and clear, his ears longer than most. Falling in love with a pixie only ever meant one thing in the world of magic: he was a traitor, right from the start. </p><p>'Ten,' He says, louder this time, so the drum of rain hurtling onto them doesn’t swallow his words. Beads of sweat and water cling to his forehead and shirt, drenching his skin as he reaches out for his boyfriend’s hand. Closing his eyes, Taeyong murmurs a spell into Ten’s knuckles, blowing gently over the lines of blood and flesh. For safety, he thinks, but out loud he says, 'Run. They won’t kill me––not if I’m alone.'</p><p>Footfalls draw near. Taeyong’s eyes are welded shut, tears spilling out of the corners like a broken dam. He can still feel Ten’s shadow looming over him, the weight of his disapproval at Taeyong’s plans burying itself in the swell of his chest. But apologies have never been Taeyong’s strength, and for that reason alone, he will grant Ten the pleasure of scrutiny. </p><p>'I will not be your weakness, sorcerer,' Ten finally says, crouching down to match Taeyong’s stance. 'Besides, it’s much too late for me now anyway.' </p><p>***</p><p>Taeyong wakes up disoriented and shivering, kicking the blanket off his bed like a loose rag. Reaching across the side table, he fumbles around for his glasses, knocking over a glass of water in the process. It spills across his carpet, and he watches in dismay as the wetness spreads incrementally along the backing like a yeast infection. </p><p>Taeyong buries his face in his hands. </p><p>He’s nineteen when he moves into the manor. It’s an ugly skeleton on steel girders, falling apart in all the wrong places. The slew of men gathered outside the front gate are drunk and angry. They warn him in slurry voices, gripping the lapels of his shirt tightly as he walks by. Don’t be an idiot, boy, they wail, this neighborhood isn’t for people like you. </p><p>Ikseon-dong. Taeyong’s parents had invested considerable sums of money in the locality a few years ago. All things considered Taeyong supposes it wasn’t a bad business decision: the neighborhood carried a certain rustic charm, like it was somehow free of unwelcome postmodern influence. The nuns who’d built the place were strange women. Dressed in night-black, they guarded the manor’s doors like blood-thirsty hounds, skeptical of anyone who chose to enter its premises. Locals claim to have spotted signs of ritualistic corpse burnings and satanic worship coming from within. Sorcery, they called it. Taeyong feels the laughter and bitterness bubble inside his throat like magic.</p><p>Looking around his room now, he feels an odd, swooping sense of nostalgia––like he’s nineteen and seeing the world again for the first time. Sighing deeply, Taeyong gets out of bed, heading downstairs towards the kitchen. Out of habit, he tests the lock on the front gate first to make sure it's bolted shut. Ravens gather around the chimney above him, flying in counter-clockwise circles as he shuts the door behind him firmly.  </p><p><br/> <br/>***</p><p><br/>‘Can I bring Doyoung to the seancé?’ </p><p>Taeyong crosses his arms at Yuta, expression soporific if not slightly disbelieving. ‘What?’ </p><p>‘Doyoung? My roommate?’ </p><p>‘Yes, I know who he is,’ Taeyong snaps, eyes narrowing as he surveys his best friend for signs of deception. It isn’t a long shot––Yuta lies all the time. It’s a coping mechanism; a morally ambiguous front for all the seriousness that resides within him, but Taeyong can hardly berate Yuta for it given his own terrible ways of dealing with feelings. ‘That’s not the part of that sentence that confuses me.’ </p><p>‘Relax, I’m not lying. It’s just... Yuta smirks, drawing a crumpled photograph from his pocket. ‘I was talking to him about the blood and twigs situation. You know, so he doesn’t think you're insane,’ Taeyong shoots him the finger. ‘And it turns out he’s not unfamiliar with the graveyard. His mom was a Reaper before she crossed.’ </p><p>Taeyong squints at the picture. There’s no timestamp on it, but he can tell from the background that it has to be at least three years old. Doyoung stands in the middle of the graveyard, sandwiched between his parents. He’s got his arms around both of them, and a wide smile on his face as the camera shutter goes off. </p><p>‘Bit scary,’ Yuta mutters, reaching back for the photo. ‘I’ve never seen him smile like that.’ </p><p>‘Do you think he’s a murderer?’ </p><p>‘I think I’d know if I was living with a killer, Taeyong,’ </p><p>Taeyong shrugs, his mind still reeling from the new information. ‘People keep secrets. Besides, he’s a sorcerer, isn’t he? Hands never free of blood, heart never free of guilt.” </p><p>‘Your moral conscience is such a liability,’ Yuta scoffs, laughter escaping his mouth in the form of an inelegant snort. ‘So what’s the verdict? Can he come?’  </p><p>Taeyong stares at his best friend, narrow-eyed. ‘Does he still practice?’ </p><p>‘No,’ Yuta flops back onto the bed. ‘Of course not. Reaper’s child. He’ll have to live his whole life paying for his parent’s sins. An outdated rule, if you ask me, but when has the Coven ever been reasonable?’</p><p>‘Well,’ </p><p>‘He’s a bit like you actually. Quiet. A little deranged from the repression,” </p><p>‘You’re a dick,’ Taeyong mumbles, sending the object closest to him flying in the direction of Yuta’s head. It’s a pen, and he misses. </p><p>‘Anyway,’ Yuta continues, ignoring the dirty look Taeyong gives him when he props his feet up on the bedrest. ‘I asked him if he wants to join the seancé, and he said yes.’  </p><p>‘Thanks for pretending I have a say in this,’ Taeyong deadpans, ignoring Yuta in favor of dusting his desk. </p><p>‘You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do for you. Your dick has probably shrivelled up from neglect.’ </p><p>Taeyong whirls around, dust forgotten, green sparks flying out of the tips of his fingers. </p><p>‘IT’S A JOKE!’ </p><p>Taeyong flicks his wrist, lifting Yuta off the bed, dropping him onto the floor with a thump. </p><p>‘Anyway,’ Yuta continues, unfazed by the disarmament. ‘I’m giving you a heads-up. You are now obliged to be nice to him.’</p><p>‘I’m always nice,’ Taeyong mutters, furrowing his eyebrows. </p><p>‘Taeyong, the last time we met another sorcerer you set him on fire,’ Yuta sighs. ‘Whatever, just be on your best behavior. His magic skills are comparable to Rex’s.” </p><p>‘That’s a bad analogy. Rex is a very talented dog.’ </p><p>‘Shut the fuck up,’ </p><p>Taeyong shrugs. It helps that he’s interested in Reaper connections, but to ask Doyoung about it is to invite trouble and Taeyong has enough on his plate without the added pressure of trying to get to know Doyoung Kim. It wasn’t personal. He just wasn’t a very trusting person. </p><p>‘Look, it’s more knowledge of the cemetery than we have combined,’ Yuta’s voice sounds softer now, like he can sense Taeyong’s thoughts, and Taeyong knows he's being serious. ‘I just want this hell to be over for you.’ </p><p>Taeyong eyes Yuta. He’s not enthusiastic about the idea of dragging another person into his mess, least of all someone as practical as Doyoung, but Yuta is right. He needs closure. </p><p>Turning back to his desk, he taps his duster lightly. ‘Fine, but if he loses a limb, that’s on you.’ </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. no easy way from the earth to the stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Taeyong gapes at him, spluttering, no, floundering at the accusation. ‘That’s not true. I’m a very good teacher. Ask Yuta!’ </p><p>‘I did,’ Doyoung says, flatly. ‘He said you have the composure of a ticking time-bomb.’</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Reader, I'm sorry to have created this mess, but in the words of Kant, some garbage is okay. So we shall persist.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘You’re early.’ Taeyong doesn’t look up from where he’s seated. He’s writing an essay for his poetry class, and quite frankly, he’d rather die than admit he’s doing school work in front of Yuta. </p><p>‘I’m sorry, were you working?’ </p><p>Taeyong’s head snaps up to find Doyoung leaning against the doorway. His hair is disheveled and his face looks flushed, like he’s just run eighteen flights of stairs to get here. The manor is crumbling and Taeyong knows from experience that it’s best to avoid taking the elevator. Still, there’s something odd about the way Doyoung pants, chest rising and falling as he struggles to catch his breath. </p><p>Taeyong shakes his head, scanning the younger boy for signs of trouble. ‘It’s fine. I just––I thought you were Yuta.’ </p><p>‘Are you disappointed?’ Doyoung asks him, his lips forming a wane half-smile. </p><p>Taeyong raises an eyebrow. ‘That depends. Do you want me to be?’ </p><p> Doyoung slides down beside him, wincing as his back hits the wall. ‘No.’ </p><p>‘Good,’ Taeyong says, holding his gaze for a minute longer than necessary. ‘I wasn’t planning on it.’ </p><p>They stay like that for a while, Taeyong tapping away at his keyboard, trying his best to not take notice of the way Doyoung stares up at him, unguarded and attentive. There’s a strange kind of tension in the air that Taeyong attributes to the silence between them. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable, or any of the other things it might have been if Taeyong let himself dwell on it for longer. Instead, he chooses to look away, directing his energy towards the paper he’s writing. </p><p>Working with Doyoung is a significant change of pace from the general mixture of hedonism and misanthropy Taeyong is used to. His perceptiveness is aggravating, especially on days like this when Taeyong needed to perform magic without distraction and all Doyoung did was clutter his brain. Although it’s frustrating trying to field the orbit of contemplative silence Doyoung directs his way, Taeyong supposes it could be a lot worse. Scrying is the hardest part, but Doyoung does a good job amplifying his powers. Taeyong suspects it has something to do with his Reaper blood, but he doesn’t meddle. Some secrets are best left untouched. It is likely the same reason Doyoung chooses not to ask him about Ten. </p><p>In the weeks that follow, Taeyong finds himself increasingly unfazed by the atmosphere of silence that accompanies Doyoung. It’s lighter, less burdensome that he’d imagined it would be. It reminds him of the day Doyoung drops by the manor for the first time. Yuta had just introduced them, except by this point Doyoung had already seen him at his worst and he’d slept in the younger boy’s bed. If there is any remaining awkwardness between, Doyoung doesn’t make it known. Taeyong offers him a glass of water, tells him about the spell he’s working on. </p><p>‘Necromancy isn’t pleasant stuff,’ He says, hoping just a little that the mention of dark magic is enough to push Doyoung away. ‘I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved.’</p><p>‘I think I’ll be alright,’ Doyoung tells him, predictably standing his ground. ‘The graveyard is home.’ </p><p>A beat of silence follows. ‘You’re not going to ask me why I’m evoking the dead?’ Taeyong notes. </p><p>Doyoung’s eyes are sharp, clear of any misgiving or judgement. ‘Yuta mentioned you like your privacy. I would assume I’m no exception.’</p><p>It’s true for the most part. Doyoung is no exception. His questions, if any, tended to focus on the parts of Taeyong’s life most people ignore: his interests, preferred choice of food, hobbies. Doyoung only ever asks him the most mundane questions, and for that alone, Taeyong is grateful. </p><p>Today it’s just the two of them at the cemetery. Yuta has band practice. (“Since when were you in a band?” “Hot bass player “ Yuta says, by way of response). </p><p>Taeyong squints at the hand-drawn map vacantly. Doyoung’s question floats over his head. </p><p>He really is the worst kind of beautiful. Tall, slender, poised––everything Taeyong is not. His actions are intentional and he never speaks out of turn. When he does choose to respond, it’s always in thoughtful locution and with practiced respect. When Taeyong speaks, he’s quick to judge, or dismiss people for their petty actions, because they reinforce his belief that people are, in fact, no good. </p><p>‘What?’ </p><p>Doyoung’s voice jerks him back to the present, where they stand facing each other between a column of graves. </p><p>‘You said you study literature. Why?’ </p><p>Taeyong looks up at Doyoung.  They don’t usually ask each other follow-up questions. </p><p>‘Oh,’ He mumbles, thinking about it for a few seconds. ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ve always enjoyed reading.’ </p><p>Doyoung is silent. </p><p>‘What about you?’ Taeyong asks, regretting the question the second it leaves his mouth. This is supposed to be a strictly business relationship, not a get-to-know-your-friend’s-roommate ship. He’s already breaking the rules. </p><p>‘Music,’ </p><p>Taeyong nods, contemplative. </p><p>‘Hyung,’ Doyoung says, and this time Taeyong turns around to look at him properly. His black hair lies stark against his pale skin and his neck arches gracefully when he stretches. ‘Will you be done soon? I have class.’</p><p>‘Five minutes. Can you show me the grave pattern again?’ </p><p>Doyoung leans in. He smells like lemongrass and something else distinctly boy. </p><p>When they’re done, Doyoung claps his hands gently. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time,’ He smiles thinly, avoiding Taeyong’s gaze as he brushes past him on the way out. His dark hair is slick with sweat and there’s a pain patch stuck to the back of his neck that Taeyong can tell he’s trying to hide. It’s almost a game for him at this point, pretending not to notice the way Doyoung’s eyes screw shut every time he puts weight on his shoulder, or the way he leaves immediately after their cemetery outings, never hanging around long enough for Taeyong to ask him about it. </p><p>A part of Taeyong wishes he was the kind of person to intrinsically care. Maybe he used to be that person, but he doesn’t remember what it entails anymore. His empathy feels forced, like it’s something to be meted out in fear of moral retribution. He isn’t sure what kind of person that is: he’s most definitely not a pillar of goodness. It doesn’t help that Doyoung affects him. The Reaper’s boy is a distraction to his senses, something Taeyong prides himself in because there is little in this world that fazes him less than people, but now, watching Doyoung strain himself week after week as they search for ways to bring back the dead, Taeyong isn’t so sure of his own callousness. </p><p>For reasons known to him, Taeyong refuses to pry directly. Instead, he settles for the less horrifying option and asks Yuta about it at dinner. It is a moment of great weakness, and Taeyong can feel his dignity withering away at the prospect of what is to soon become an endless cycle of ribbing. Even so, he can’t bring himself to completely regret asking.</p><p>‘Has Doyoung been...doing...okay lately?’ </p><p>Yuta stares at him, glee plastered over his face like a flashing red sign. ‘Why, are you worried about him? Is that what’s happening? Are you guys becoming friends?’ </p><p>‘Just answer the question, Nakamoto,’ Taeyong rolls his eyes. </p><p>Yuta smirks, settling down quicker than expected. ‘You want the simple answer or the long one?’ </p><p>It’s a trap and Taeyong knows it. His brain helpfully supplies images of Doyoung grimacing in pain, massaging his shoulder when he thinks Taeyong isn’t looking. This is terrible, Taeyong thinks. I hate myself. After what seems like ages, he responds. ‘Give me the long version.’</p><p>*** </p><p>‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ Taeyong fires the accusation at Doyoung the second he walks through the door. </p><p>To his credit, Doyoung is quick on his feet. The rebuttal comes quicker than Taeyong anticipates, and it scalds his skin with veracity, burying itself into the parts of his flesh that aren’t covered in scales and armour. Taeyong doesn’t miss his heart most of the time. Its hardened shell has sealed off entry and warded every possible attack on it since Ten died. He doesn’t miss it, until now, when Doyoung’s words worm their way past his defenses and shock him into action. </p><p>‘Hyung,’ He says plainly, without grudge or resentment. Taeyong hates that about him. He wishes Doyoung would get angry. ‘You’ve done nothing to indicate you care. In fact, I think you made it abundantly clear the first day that you didn’t want this getting any more personal than it needs to be.’ </p><p>‘I lied,’ </p><p>‘Why would you do that?’ </p><p>Taeyong sighs, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. I’m just a terrible person.’ </p><p>When he looks up at Doyoung again, the younger boy is smiling. It’s not his usual smile, the wane tilt of lips Tayeong is accustomed to seeing. He’s smiling widely, teeth and gums pulled apart in a careless display of delight. Taeyong finds it hard to believe Doyoung doesn’t know how breathless this smile makes him, how easily it knocks the wind from his lungs and sends his brain scrambling to find something else to focus on. He has to know the effect he’s having on Taeyong because his feelings have been nothing short of apparent, and if it wasn’t clear before, it certainly would be now when Taeyong stares back openly, making little effort to disguise or conceal his interest. </p><p>Taeyong sighs in response. ‘I could help you. I’m a sorcerer, in case you forgot.’ </p><p>‘I didn’t,’ Doyoung retorts. ‘It’s just that I’m not very good with magic, and you’re not a very patient person.’ </p><p>Taeyong gapes at him, spluttering, no, floundering at the accusation. ‘That’s not true. I’m a very good teacher. Ask Yuta!’ </p><p>‘I did,’ Doyoung says, flatly. ‘He said you have the composure of a ticking time-bomb.’ </p><p>‘The bastard,’ Taeyong mutters, but there’s no bite to the words. Instead, he laughs, ears turning red as Doyoung follows suit, voice ringing sweet as they move closer into the circle of the manor. </p><p>***</p><p>‘––Give me the long version,’ Taeyong’s face is flushed and they don't need a detective around to prove that he’s nervous. It’s evident in the way he taps his long fingers against the table, impatiently. </p><p>‘He’s been trying to get back into magic,’ Yuta says, lips tilting up in amusement at Taeyong’s antics. </p><p>‘But he’s a Reaper’s child,’ Taeyong responds, stupidly. </p><p>‘Yes,’ Yuta sighs. ‘That’s why it’s hard. He almost never sleeps because his body keeps pushing in energy.’</p><p>Taeyong shakes his head. ‘Why is he even trying? The Coven––’ </p><p>‘How would you feel? If you were stripped off your powers?’ </p><p>‘I don’t know. Happy?’ </p><p>Yuta looks at him disdainfully, and with so much suspicion, Taeyong can practically see it drip down his eye sockets and into his eggs and hash. ‘You know that’s not true.’ </p><p>Does he? Taeyong isn’t sure of anything anymore. He has days of clarity, ones where he feels like he knows himself and what he wants. He wants to be happy so badly sometimes, the physical ache of wanting it feels like an iron box pressed against his stomach. Maybe it was because he wasn’t happy now, or because he hasn’t been happy before, or because he had experienced and lost sight of what it means to be happy, but the prospect of carrying on this way, keeping his loneliness close to his chest where it staggers his breathing, allowing it to leak into his bloodstream and consequently take over his life, terrifies him to bits. </p><p>At least that’s what he tells Yuta. </p><p>‘Magic isn’t to do with legacy or blood,’ Yuta responds, scooping eggs onto Taeyong’s plate. ‘It’s coexistence. The feeling of knowing and being known. It’s the interconnectedness of our lives that makes sorcery powerful. Not the destruction it leaves it in its wake at the hands of the guilty.’ </p><p>‘You know,’ Taeyong mutters through a mouthful of food. ‘You can be quite a poet sometimes.’ </p><p>Yuta grins. ‘That’s what I told Jaehyun before coercing him into letting me join the band.’ </p><p>‘Is he the hot bass player you mentioned?’ </p><p>‘Yeah, but he’s such a sweetheart, I feel bad about my miscreancy,’ </p><p>Taeyong rolls his eyes, putting on his best news anchor voice. ‘Live reporting from Eomma’s Dinner where we witness a rare and unfamiliar sighting of the mighty Yuta in its natural habitat, repenting.’ </p><p>(‘It’s a joke!’ Taeyong hisses as purple sparks fly out of Yuta’s fingers. ‘Put it away, someone might see you!’) </p><p>***</p><p>Taeyong isn’t sure how they become friends, but they do. </p><p>It happens slowly, over long walks through the cemetery, scrying, over coffee that Taeyong hates. It makes no sense at first, because Doyoung couldn’t be more different from him if he tried. The younger boy is practical where Taeyong is fanciful, stubborn where Taeyong is resilient, kind where Taeyong is bruised, and it feels like all the odds have been stacked against them. </p><p>‘What are you thinking about?’ Doyoung asks, prodding Taeyong’s knee gently. </p><p>‘Coffee,’ </p><p>Doyoung’s expression shifts, his thoughts inscrutable as always.</p><p>‘What are you thinking about?’ Taeyong asks, eyeing him from the side.  </p><p>The younger boy seems to really consider the question, because when he finally responds Taeyong wishes the ground would swallow him whole. </p><p>‘The day I met you,’ </p><p>‘Don’t,’ Taeyong groans, burying his face in his hands. Memories of blood and twigs come floating back to him; the smell of Doyoung’s comforter, the film posters and records; making it to the subway station just on time. </p><p>‘I had so many questions...’ </p><p>‘And now?’ Taeyong asks, gazing up at the boy he’s with. </p><p>Doyoung smiles at him, softly. It’s the same smile he offers Taeyong six months ago when they meet in Yuta’s kitchen for the first time. ‘I trust you now, so it doesn’t bother me.’ </p><p>Taeyong stares ahead, his heart threatening to fly out of his ribcage. ‘You’re buttering me up so I help you with your spells, correct?’ </p><p>Doyoung laughs and it’s a beautiful thing, full-bodied and joyful. ‘Correct,’ He says, like it’s Taeyong’s fault for offering in the first place. He wasn’t wrong. Taeyong built his own purgatory. <br/>But sitting next to Doyoung now, in the faint twilight of the convenience store, Taeyong knows that he’s running out of excuses to explain his choices. It was only a matter of time, he supposes, before he lets himself run awry, uncaring of consequences and corollary. It should be a scarier prospect, but for now Taeyong finds that he doesn’t care. Not when the familiar weight of Doyoung’s presence steadies him, like a warm light at the end of a long, long tunnel. </p><p>***</p><p>Taeyong is seventeen when he meets Ten. He’s hiding from his family in the cloak room, wary of the tremendous responsibilities that come with being a legacy. It’s no secret that Taeyong is destined for greatness. He’s been bred for it, nurtured into it, shepherded unwittingly into the sorcerer’s pen. There isn’t a single person in the room today that doesn’t know his name. So naturally, it comes as a shock to him to discover the boy hiding in there with him has no idea who he is. </p><p>‘I’m Ten,’ The pixie grins, slyly, sticking his hand out. ‘Like the number.’ </p><p>‘I’m Taeyong,’ Taeyong says, ignoring the way his heart thumps as he grips Ten’s slender fingers.</p><p>Ten laughs easily, his eyes crinkling into crescent moons. ‘Nice to meet you, Taeyong.’</p><p>Falling in love with Ten is easy. He treats Taeyong like everyone else, even after he finds out Taeyong’s secret. Ten is a pixie, the last of his kind to remain after the purge. It is only later that Taeyong finds out his family was cast out of the Coven during the data leak scandal and here to seek asylum. Pixies are bad blood, Taeyong’s father warns him. They’re malicious creatures with no loyalty, and the Coven wants revenge.</p><p>But none of that mattered to Taeyong. Ten’s orbit was stronger than any magnetic field he had encountered, and if it wasn’t for a life of practiced restraint, there was nothing to stop him from getting inexorably entangled in his gravity.</p><p>When Ten kisses him for the first time, Taeyong feels like his body might shatter. </p><p>‘I’ll run away with you,’ He tells the pixie. ‘I don’t want to be a legacy.’ </p><p>‘I will not be your weakness, sorcerer,’ Ten would respond, and that would be it. </p><p>***</p><p>‘Your arms are stiff,’ Taeyong observes, lifting his hoodie up to wipe the sweat off his chin. The action exposes a small part of his torso. Flat, defined, nothing obscene, but it leaves Doyoung scrambling to find something else to look at. ‘Be more gentle.’ </p><p>‘Here,’ Taeyong mutters, and he’s behind Doyoung now, breath hot on his neck as he reaches around Doyoung’s waist, guiding his arms through the arc of the spell. ‘You’re nervous.’ </p><p>‘I wonder why,’ Doyoung mutters, heart threatening to fly out of it’s ribcage. He’s sure Taeyong can hear it from where he’s standing, eyes fluttering shut, barely any space left now between their bodies. </p><p>They’ve been working on Doyoung’s magic in their spare time. It hasn’t been easy, partly because Doyoung is a child of a Reaper and that meant that any magic he had in his blood needed to be forced out painfully as punishment for ancestral sins. The other part of the problem was that Taeyong was a menace to work with. He tolerated so little infraction and expected so much development, it made him scary to be around at the best of times. Still, Doyoung persevered. Being around Taeyong seemed to help for some reason, and if the progress he was making was any sign, Doyoung would rank Taeyong’s bullying skills highly. He happened to be a very adept (not to mention, visually pleasing) teacher. </p><p>Taeyong shifts, moving around to stand in front of Doyoung. ‘Just listen to my voice.’ He says. </p><p>Doyoung nods shakily, eyes closed until Taeyong pulls back. When the humming picks up this time, he feels his body go numb again. There’s a faint buzzing in his ear that tells him he’s moving, but really, all he’s doing is focusing on the sound of Taeyong’s instructions. Doyoung isn’t sure the spell is working anymore, but his body feels unstoppable, like it contains the untapped energy of the world. When he finally cracks open his eyes, Taeyong is hovering just a few inches away. </p><p>‘I did it,’ Doyoung whispers, disbelieving, because this is the first time a spell of his has worked. </p><p>‘Non est ad astra mollis e terris via,’ Taeyong smiles gently, placing a finger lightly on Doyoung’s lips. <em>There is no easy way from the earth to the stars. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Updates soon. Or later. It depends on the author's mood and willingness to engage in productive activity.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. thankful for what the water gave me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And it’s here, on the outskirts of Johnny’s party, with the faint drum of loud EDM music pulsing behind them, that Taeyong realises he likes Doyoung very much.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Reader, I have a confession. I have no idea what I'm doing. I just wanted to write one paragraph featuring the line "Doyoung licked into Taeyong's mouth" and it somehow turned into this trainwreck. Nevertheless, if you happen to have stuck around so far, know that I am equal parts grateful and surprised. As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>“I drank to drown my pain, but the damned pain learned how to swim, and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good </em>behavior<em>." ––Frida Kahlo, on her painting ‘What The Water Gave Me’, 1938</em></p><p><br/> ***</p><p>Taeyong is feeling particularly sorry for himself when he leaves class that evening. He’d tried to write again today, but it only seemed to be getting harder and harder to find the words. Taeyong used to think that it would get better with time, that he’d go back to being the same person he was before he met Ten, but it’s been months since he’s presented anything concrete, and he’s starting to truly believe in the possibility of failing out of university. </p><p>Doyoung is sitting on the steps of the manor when he arrives. His dark hair is wet from the rain and he seems to be engaged in some kind of deep thought because he doesn’t notice the way Taeyong’s shadow hovers over him as he walks over. From this angle, Taeyong can only see the top of his head and the sharp tilt of his nose. It’s funny, he thinks to himself, that Doyoung could cover his whole face and body, and Taeyong would still find a way to identify him. Short breaths, calculative movements. He had an entire handbook of Doyoung’s mannerisms memorised. </p><p>‘Doyoung?’ </p><p>The younger boy starts, lifting his head up so quickly Taeyong is surprised he doesn’t sprain his neck. </p><p>‘Let’s go in,’ Taeyong smiles.</p><p>They’re meant to be scrying today, but it’s been a long week at university and Taeyong simply doesn’t have the core strength to perform satisfactory magic. What he really wants to do is curl up into a ball and sleep for a thousand years, or at least until Yuta screams at him to wake up. His anxiety has been doing numbers on him lately, and if the knowledge of his empty finals week document isn’t enough to send his brain spiralling, the prospect of having to sleep alone in this dark house with nothing but his thoughts for company certainly is. </p><p>He almost forgets Doyoung is in here with him, but then there’s a gentle cough, followed by a politely phrased question. </p><p>‘Hyung,’ He says. ‘Are you okay? You don’t look very well.’ </p><p>‘I’m having a crisis of faith,’ Taeyong responds, sinking into the chair by the side of the door. ‘Also I can’t write.’</p><p>‘It’s a little late for a major switch, don’t you think?’ Doyoung asks, leaning back against the curve of the door, clutching a bag of groceries in his free hand. His jeans ride low on his waist today and Taeyong is trying hard not to take notice of it, but it’s proving to be near impossible, especially when Doyoung insists on bending around everywhere to pick up stray items strewn around the floor. Not for the first time, Taeyong wishes he was more organised. </p><p>‘No––’ He huffs, raking his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in plumes. ‘I mean, I can write. But I don’t have a subject. It's like I’ve forgotten how to use words.’ </p><p>‘Artists’ block?’ </p><p>‘Kind of,’ Taeyong admits, reaching into his pocket for the house key. ‘It’s been happening for a while. I’m starting to think I’m just a bad student.’ </p><p>‘I wouldn’t know,’ Doyoung responds, setting his bag down by the foyer. ‘I haven’t seen your work.’ </p><p>‘Do you want to?’ </p><p>Pause.</p><p>‘Right now?’ </p><p>‘Sure. I’m too tired to scry anyway,’  </p><p>It’s a little surreal leading Doyoung into his room, Taeyong thinks, switching on the lights by the heater. Everything suddenly looks very messy––a box of used tissues and brushes tottering at the edge of his sink, empty cartons of frosties by the foot of his bed, half-done laundry hanging over his chair. Wishing he’d left the place neater, Taeyong directs Doyoung to the least gross part of his bed, instructing him to not touch anything unless he wants to contract a deadly disease. </p><p>‘Here,’ Taeyong says, placing his old notebooks and journals gently onto Doyoung’s lap. ‘I like to write longhand.’ </p><p>Doyoung flashes him a grin and it’s so bright Taeyong has to look down to avoid having a heart attack. </p><p>Doyoung thumbs through the yellowing pages. There’s an entire section dedicated just Ten’s smile––the same, sweet one he’d flash Taeyong as they worked, the same one he’d worn when they’d slept together for the first time. Years later, he would stand by Taeyong’s side with the same smile on his face, leaving him with nothing but regrets and a broken heart. </p><p>‘Is this...about your ex?’ Doyoung looks up, drawing out the sentence so he can observe Taeyong’s response.</p><p>‘Mhmm,’ Taeyong mumbles, feeling like he probably ought to get rid of the pages. It’s not like he was holding out for some grand reunion in the future. Dead was dead. </p><p>‘I’m sorry,’ Doyoung whispers, and it takes Taeyong a moment to realize that he’s been silent. </p><p>‘Don’t be. We were over long before he passed away,’ </p><p>‘Have you dated anyone else? Since?’ </p><p>‘No,’ Taeyong surveys Doyoung carefully. His eyes run over the planes of the pianist’s face, moving along his sharp jaw, tracing the lines and curves of his mouth and neck. </p><p>‘Why?’ </p><p>‘I...think I’m scared,’ </p><p>‘Of what?’ </p><p>‘Of losing people. Forgetting,’ He tells Doyoung quietly, and it feels important to mention this. He doesn’t know why––maybe it’s because he hasn’t been able to talk about it with Yuta yet, maybe it’s because there’s something about Doyoung that makes him feel like he’ll be okay again. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. And I’m so sad. <em>All</em> the time.’ </p><p>They’re sitting so close, Taeyong can count every one of Doyoung’s eyelashes. They’re annoyingly long, he thinks. Why are they so long? It’s unfair. </p><p>‘That’s alright,’ The pianist whispers back, his breath tickling the shell of Taeyong’s ear. ‘I like you like this.’ </p><p>‘Broken and needy?’ </p><p>Doyoung laughs. There should be more words in the English language to describe Doyoung’s laughter. Each one is so different in their ability to invoke movement in Taeyong’s heart. ‘Yes.’ </p><p>Taeyong nods, feeling the tightness in his chest let up. </p><p>‘Can I ask you something?’</p><p>‘Yeah?’</p><p>Doyoung’s voice is quiet, and when he speaks, his words seem to quiver like they’re full of potential. ‘Is this why we’re trying to bring back the dead? So you can see him again?’ </p><p>‘Not for the reasons you’re thinking of right now,’ Taeyong replies, firmly. </p><p>Doyoung smiles, but it lacks conviction. ‘You can read minds now?’ </p><p>‘If necessary,’ </p><p>‘Okay, what am I thinking about?’ </p><p>‘You’re thinking “I should compliment Taeyong on his writing so he regains his courage and doesn’t drop out of University in his final year”.’</p><p>‘You’re right,’ Doyoung leans in closer, his breath cool and minty against Taeyong’s cheeks. ‘That is what I’m thinking. Have courage, Hyung. I’m rooting for you.’ </p><p><br/>*** </p><p>It’s strange seeing Doyoung outside Yuta’s apartment, especially since he never seemed to leave the house except for classes and scrying. Taeyong nearly doesn’t notice him the first time, but walking past the university coffee shop again, he catches a glimpse of the other boy’s black baseball cap. There’s something soft about him today, Taeyong notes, trying not to stare too much. Almost like he can tell he has an audience, Doyoung looks up, catching Taeyong’s gaze from underneath his fringe. </p><p>‘Hi,’ He says, offering Taeyong a small smile. ‘I didn’t think you’d be on campus today.’ </p><p>‘Johnny asked, no, pestered me into modelling for his exhibit next week,’ Taeyong sighs wearily. </p><p>Doyoung laughs. ‘Is that why you’re wearing makeup?’ </p><p>Taeyong nods, suddenly self-conscious of the way his heavy eyeshadow and glittery skin must look. ‘I should probably wash it off.’ </p><p>‘Don’t,’ Doyoung replies, his eyes roving over Taeyong’s face carefully. ‘I think you look pretty.’ </p><p>‘––Taeyong!’ Johnny’s voice rings from across the corridor, loud enough to attract the attention of every passer-by within a five mile radius. Taeyong turns around, squinting his eyes to locate the source of the yelling. Johnny and him have media studies together, and if it wasn’t for the former football captain’s elite status as a photographer, Taeyong would have been happy working without a partner. Unfortunately for him, Johnny is the opposite of hostile, and soon enough Taeyong found himself getting dragged along to cafés and bars against his will as Johnny scouted new people to get his charm all over. </p><p>‘Here,’ Taeyong waves at him, looking slightly perplexed as Johnny lumbers towards him, exhausted. </p><p>‘You forgot your lapto––’ Johnny begins, and then stops short when he notices Doyoung seated next to them, sipping his coffee with surprising placidness. ‘Doyoungie?’ </p><p>Taeyong nearly spits out his drink. ‘You guys know each other?’ </p><p>Doyoung nods, not bothering to stand up. </p><p>‘We went to school together,’ Johnny says, by way of explanation. ‘But more importantly, how do you two know each other?’ </p><p>Taeyong coughs in an attempt to remain inconspicuous. It doesn’t work. </p><p>‘We’re, um, we––’ </p><p>‘Taeyong hyung is writing an article about solitude in the practice of music,’ Doyoung says, not missing a beat. ‘He’s been interviewing me for it.’ </p><p>Johnny doesn’t seem to find this information suspicious or interesting, because his attention is just as quickly diverted to the fact that Doyoung addresses Taeyong with respect. ‘We’re the same age, you know. How come you don’t call me hyung, you brat?’ </p><p>Doyoung rolls his eyes. ‘It’s not my fault I was a year ahead at school.’ </p><p>Taeyong watches the exchange with some degree of amusement, eventually having to pry his laptop out of Johnny’s hands before the boy threatens to smack Doyoung with it for being rude. </p><p>‘I’m going to head out for lunch now,’ Taeyong mumbles, feeling a little out-of-place in the conversation. ‘I’ll see you in class on Monday, Johnny.’ </p><p>‘Hyung,’ Doyoung grabs his wrist. ‘Wait. I need to talk to you.’ </p><p>Johnny towers between them, not seeming to take the hint, because soon enough Doyoung is shaking his head. ‘Actually, you know what, it’s fine. I’ll just text you.’ </p><p>Taeyong covers his smile with one hand, nodding once reassuringly before turning back towards the exit. He’s just rounded the corner onto main street, when his phone vibrates in his back pocket. Reaching for it with moderate haste, Taeyong surveys the messages. </p><p><strong> 24AUG [12:32] </strong>doyoung: hey <br/> <strong>24AUG [12:33] </strong>doyoung<strong>:</strong> i’m doing a concert for the school fundraiser today</p><p>Taeyong smiles gently at his phone, feeling his resolve crumble. He can’t even stop it anymore. That’s how hopeless the situation is. He’s so used to saying no, a force of habit that accompanies being friends with Johnny, it’s hard to imagine why he has such a hard time doing the same with Doyoung. </p><p>‘Well, for starters, you don’t eye-fuck Johnny,’ Yuta tells him over lunch, biting his words a few seconds later when Taeyong refuses to pay for their meal. </p><p>It’s not like he can argue with Yuta’s logic anyway. It could just be that Doyoung is pretty in a way that leaves Taeyong entirely unprepared, stumbling around words and sentences, running out of excuses to hide behind, like a heart attack that won’t stop. Or it could be that Doyoung is pretty in a way that makes Taeyong want to risk it all trying to figure out what they are. Either way, it’s hopeless. </p><p>Glancing back at his phone, he types out a response. </p><p>  <strong>24AUG [12:35] </strong>taeyong: is that an order or a request?</p><p>  <strong>24AUG [12:35] </strong>doyoung: be there <br/>  <strong>24AUG [12:36] </strong>doyoung<strong>:</strong> pls </p><p>Doyoung is mid-performance when Taeyong arrives. Nobody should look this good under harsh street lighting but he manages. Spotting Taeyong in the audience, he breaks out into a stunning smile, fingers flying over the keys of his piano flawlessly. When he’s done there’s a lively smattering of applause, followed by the clink of coins collecting in his busking jar. </p><p>Taeyong walks over, slipping a twenty dollar bill into Doyoung’s hands. </p><p>‘An extra contribution,’ He beams. ‘For your Buy-Taeyong-Dinner fund.’ </p><p>‘I was thinking of taking my brother out actually,’ Doyoung comments, hiding a smirk behind gloved fingers. </p><p>Taeyong scoffs, his breath fogging up as he reaches out to pinch Doyoung. The younger boy dodges, laughing gleefully as Taeyong chases after him, empty threats of charming his mouth shut and leaving his body in the cemetery hanging close in the frigid night air.</p><p><br/>‘Sleep well?’ Yuta asks him Monday morning. They’re speed walking towards the academic block, partly because Taeyong is late for class and partly because he’s trying to stay awake. </p><p>‘Shut up. I was busy,’ </p><p>‘I’m sure,’ His best friend says, and Taeyong notes gleefully that he’s struggling to keep up with his long strides. ‘Johnny mentioned the whole I-think-Doyoung-is-hot-what do-I-do crisis.’ </p><p>‘I never said he was ho–’ Taeyong spluttered, making a mental note to whack Johnny over his head the next time he saw him. ‘Anyway, it’s not like I spend all my nights thinking about Doyoung.’ </p><p>‘Never said you did,’ Yuta mutters, and ducks because Taeyong isn’t feeling particularly forgiving today. There’s a small part of his brain that considers arguing the point further, because Doyoung is hot and very much Taeyong’s type. It’s just that he no longer considers it his purgatory to date every beautiful boy he meets, especially not after Ten. </p><p>The music room is right by the art studio, and as Taeyong walks past it, he can’t help but peek through the blinds. There’s a piano up front––it’s a grand structure molded to the center left of the stage; all shiny, pitch black, a row of pure ivory keys marching into view. They shimmer in the sparkling stage light; bright, beautiful, and breathtaking. The boy sitting in front of it looks too tall for the bench, and Taeyong can see dark hair peeking out from underneath a familiar black cap. </p><p>Piano music wafts out of the door, and then before Taeyong can leave, the boy turns around, setting the lid of the piano down behind him with a thud. From this angle, Doyoung looks quite intimidating. His hair is pushed back and his sleeves reveal toned arms and protruding veins. </p><p>Catching sight of Taeyong outside, his face erupts into a breathtaking smile. </p><p>‘Hyung,’ He says, jogging over to where Taeyong stands frozen to his spot. ‘I didn’t know you had class in this building.’ </p><p>‘I do,’ Taeyong assures him, attempting a poorly-executed ploy at feigning disinterest. ‘I didn’t know...there was a music room here.’ </p><p>He can tell from the way Doyoung cocks an eyebrow silently at him that he thinks this is a particularly stupid thing to say. The walls of their University building are disparagingly thin, and Taeyong would have to be completely short of hearing to not be able to discern the sound of Beethoven being played all day. </p><p>Doyoung leans in, holding Taeyong’s gaze at eye-level. ‘I’ll see you later then?’ </p><p>‘Yes,’ Taeyong manages to choke. ‘I’ll see you later.’ </p><p>There must be a God out there somewhere, because if Yuta could see his face now, there would be nothing to stop Taeyong from letting the ground swallow him whole.</p><p>***</p><p>Taeyong is eighteen when he learns that love is never enough. </p><p>The memory of Ten kissing him hard, tongue sliding into Taeyong’s mouth, hot and saccharine from the candy he’s just eaten, floods his brain as he enters the trial room. He’s standing before the Coven, hands pressed tight behind his back as the members of the board glare at him menacingly. His father sits there too, right at the end of the table, not making eye contact as Taeyong scuffles in front of him. His actions feel open and vulnerable, and the way he’s being sized up like a lab rat turns into a flare of nausea at the pit of his stomach. </p><p>‘Taeyong Lee. You stand before the esteemed Coven today in light of recent events that have jeopardized our community and our code of conduct. Do you agree?’ </p><p>Taeyong nods once, imperceptibly. </p><p>‘You have been in close contact with Lǐ Yǒngqīn, a pixie whose blood has been identified to belong to the same Tieng Clan that led the raid against sorcerers and distributed vital information about our world amongst mortals. Despite our granting of asylum, his parents continue to remain a threat to our security and have been placed in confinement. Their son, Ten, is yet to be found, and we have reasonable evidence to suggest that you may be hiding him. Do you agree?’ </p><p>Taeyong glances up, his face expressionless and blank. His home, his life, everything he knows to be true of sorcery, is built on a bedrock of alienation and a substratum of isolation. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen the uprising coming. There were signs of it everywhere, scattered in the wind and rain, amongst flowers and hawthorns, between sky and stars. Pixies that practiced necromancy emerged from the shadows to fight what the Coven had become. Maintain the integrity of magic, the slogan of sorcery that Taeyong had grown up alongside, burned into the flesh of trees and set fire to. Falling in love with a pixie only ever meant one thing in the world of magic: he was a traitor, right from the start. </p><p>‘Look around you, sorcerer. Suffering is everywhere,’ Ten would say to him. ‘There is loneliness in every corner of life. And what a terrible hypocrisy it is to condemn the present for a past it cannot control. To believe in the greatness of a community that seeks to oppress and ostracize at every turn. If your intentions are corrupt, your magic can only exclude.’ </p><p>Taeyong had fought with him back then. ‘Magic is dangerous. It cannot fall into the wrong hands. Rules and laws exist for that reason alone.’ </p><p>‘Who is to say your hand is right and mine not? Who is to say sorcery is right and necromancy wrong? Your family has hunted mine mercilessly for decades, until we had no choice but to rebel in order to survive. Yours is a morally bankrupt community, so don’t tell me what’s right and what’s wrong until you take a good, hard look at yourself.’ </p><p>‘I didn’t ask for this legacy! I didn’t ask to be a sorcerer!’ </p><p>‘That means nothing to me, Taeyong. My parents continue to pay the price for a past that is justifiable by any sense of righteousness, and I have nothing left to show for my own principles except this feeble attempt to reason with you.’ </p><p>‘I love you. Does that not mean anything?’ </p><p>Ten looks at him now, and it is only then that Taeyong realises that it will never be the same between them again. Fractured relationships, they mend, but the broken ones, the ones that begin decaying at the root where time has permitted resentment to settle, would never heal the same way. They didn’t stand a fighting chance. </p><p>‘Taeyong Lee. Answer the question,’ The command pulls him back to the present, where he stands facing the board of members. ‘Do you agree?’ </p><p>Ten’s voice echoes inside his head:<em> I will not be your weakness, sorcerer. </em></p><p>‘Do you agree?’ </p><p>‘DO YOU AGREE?’ </p><p>Taeyong wakes up in bed, panting. His sleep shirt is drenched in sweat and air comes out of his throat in short bursts, hardly filling his lungs as he struggles to breathe. Staggering into the bathroom, he dry-heaves into the toilet, retching as his stomach walls stretch to accommodate the burn of nausea. His legs go numb and he can’t feel his body moving. His phone is on the other side of the room and Yuta isn’t here to save him from his mess, and Taeyong is sobbing, tears ripping out of his closed eyelids and onto his thighs where they form a pool of salty excess. He’s paralysed from the waist-down, his arms flailing above the counter uselessly for something to help bring him back. </p><p>He shouldn’t be doing magic in this condition, but there is little choice in the matter. Stumbling forward, Taeyong let’s his body go limp, focusing his thoughts and remaining energy on a single image of a boy. </p><p><br/>***</p><p>Taeyong’s shirt is blood-soaked when the door opens and Doyoung steps out bleary-eyed and with a bedhead. He takes one look at Taeyong, warning signs flashing across his face instantly as he steps forward to gather the shivering sorcerer into his arms. It’s a Friday night and Yuta isn’t in the apartment. Doyoung doesn’t say a word, silently leading Taeyong into his bedroom before disappearing and returning with a first-aid kit. </p><p>In the mellow light of the full moon, Taeyong can make out his surroundings clearly. Nothing has changed since the last time he was here. Same blanket. Same photographs. Same comforting piano music lulling him to sleep. But it’s a different Doyoung resting against the foot of the bed as he reaches behind Taeyong for the back of his shirt. </p><p>Helping Taeyong out of the red-stained clothing, Doyoung glances at the display of blood spreading across Taeyong’s body. Transporting himself here had taken up so much energy, the resulting friction had cut through the flesh of his waist, right where his leg met his hip bone. It’s far from a pretty sight, but Doyoung says nothing, asks no questions. Reaching for the warm washcloth by his side, he gently cleans the wound as Taeyong watches the water run red with every wipe. </p><p>‘You need to stop doing whatever this is,’ Doyoung’s voice sounds pained. He’s finished disinfecting and bandaging the cut, and his quivering hands rest against Taeyong’s thighs when he finally speaks. </p><p>Taeyong gazes down at Doyoung nestled between his legs and his throat goes dry, sharp pain shooting up his side. ‘You mean dying?’ </p><p>‘Yes. Stop dying,’ </p><p>Taeyong can’t be sure if it’s the exhaustion or delirium talking, but he looks up at Doyoung intently. ‘What’s it to you?’ </p><p>He can’t be sure what the other boy is thinking, but it’s clear that Taeyong’s question takes him by surprise. To his credit, he recovers quickly, eyes flitting from Taeyong’s wound to his face. Reaching up, he traces his fingers tenderly along Taeyong’s cheeks.  </p><p>‘I think you already know the answer to that, hyung,’ He finally says, handing Taeyong a small bottle of ointment. </p><p>‘Do I?’ </p><p>‘I don’t keep secrets,’ Doyoung shrugs, and this time he lets his gaze drift down towards Taeyong’s lips. When he looks back up, Taeyong’s mouth has gone dry, every nerve in his body on fire from what he can’t be sure is pain. Taeyong is grateful for the blanket of darkness that envelopes them now––because it is the only veneer of protection he has left against the attack on his heart. </p><p>Leaning forward, he lets his own hand ghost over the curve of Doyoung’s chin, resting his forehead against the pianist’s. </p><p>‘Me neither,’ He says, and they both know it’s a lie. Maybe the best way to keep secrets is to pretend there isn’t one. So that’s what they do. </p><p>‘Will you sleep next to me?’ Taeyong whispers. ‘I don’t want to be alone tonight.’ </p><p>Doyoung nods, settling in next to him. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ </p><p>Lying next to Doyoung in the dark, Taeyong is acutely aware of the way he must look right now: like a mess that needed to be cleaned up and taken care of. It would be especially bad if it wasn’t for Doyoung leaning sideways to face him, face inches away from his as he whispers, ‘Hyung, I like you already. This isn’t going to change that.’ </p><p>Taeyong closes his eyes, wincing as he shifts his weight onto his uninjured side. </p><p>Doyoung’s hands reach for him underneath the blanket and the warmth from his fingertips spreads across Taeyong’s palms, willing his unsteady heartbeat to quieten down. In his dreams he’s back in the hell-forest, and he’s running and running and then he’s not. Spells are flying at them from every corner. He’s lying on the ground next to Ten’s body, ground splitting into two underneath them as Taeyong unleashes all the magic inside him onto the world. He’d promised to hide him from the Coven, he’d promised to protect him, keep him safe. But this is Ten’s last act of love and it is a form of retaliation. <em>I will not be your weakness, sorcerer. But if you love me at all, you won’t let this be the end. </em></p><p>‘It’s just a dream, hyung,’ Doyoung wraps his arms around him, pulling a whimpering Taeyong closer into his chest, hugging him tightly. ‘It’s just a dream. I’m right here. It’s just a dream. You’re alright.’ </p><p><br/>***</p><p>It’s been three weeks since the day Taeyong sleeps in Doyoung’s bed for a second time. The pianist promises not to say anything about it to Yuta in exchange for a vow of discretion from Taeyong. He’s meant to lay low, forget about scrying and necromancy and anything else remotely supernatural until the end of the month. It isn’t an entirely fruitless bargain. Taeyong finds himself especially thankful for the oath around finals week, when it dawns upon him that he needs to write a few hundred thousand words of prose in three days. Unlike most things in his life, this pain eventually gives way to joy, and he manages to pull through the class with surprisingly minimal scarring. </p><p>The end of exams comes hand-in-hand with a whole host of new problems: the terrifying prospect of graduating, the fear of existential doom and unemployment, and worst of all, Johnny’s year-end party. In Taeyong’s brain, his natural introverted alignment is an excuse to get out of the rager, but when Yuta storms into the manor that evening, equipped with a flat-iron and eyeliner, Taeyong knows there is no way out. </p><p>‘You’re going,’ Yuta says in a way that suggests there is no room for argument. </p><p>Taeyong groans, pretending he doesn’t hear this. </p><p>‘Doyoung will be there,’ </p><p>Taeyong sits up, wishing he could wipe the smirk off Yuta’s face, because he’s right, the mention of Doyoung is enough to get him out of the house, or anywhere else really. It’s been weeks since they last spoke, and Taeyong is honestly afraid he might have scared the Reaper’s child away. It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened. </p><p>Stepping into Johnny’s house that evening, Taeyong is certain that it is hell on Earth. Every corner of the building is packed with people from Uni. There’s people on the balcony, smoking pot, people on the rooftop, people by the pool, people making out. He hides behind Yuta, fearfully.</p><p>‘I don’t like the vibe in here,’ Taeyong mumbles, looking tiny in his enormous hoodie and jeans. The jeans are ripped at the tops of his knees, because Yuta wouldn’t let him leave the house without engaging in some degree of ‘thottery’. </p><p>‘YUTA!’ Johnny grins, walking up to them, all-smiles. Taeyong could positively smell the glee on him. ‘Glad you guys could make it.’ </p><p>‘Had to drag Taeyong out of his pity-den, but he’s here,’ Yuta says, clapping Johnny’s back cheerfully. </p><p>Taeyong shoots him an ugly look. <br/>‘It’s been cool hanging out with you guys, but I’m off,’ Yuta says, grabbing a bottle of beer from the counter. ‘I see my hot-bass-player and his possé of less hot minions. Must go fraternise.’ </p><p>Taeyong watches the betrayer retreat, panicking only slightly when Johnny offers him a drink of his own. ‘Thanks,’ He says, ‘But I’m good. I don’t drink.’ </p><p>Wading through the crowd, Taeyong pushes past randos for what seems like hours until he reaches the rooftop. Breathing in deeply, he surveys the scene. There’s two freshmen from his TA class, Mark and Donghyuck, presumably high as fuck if their vacant smiles are anything to go by. Taeyong smiles at Mark awkwardly. (‘A-yo, it’s the T-man! What up, hyung?’). He ignores this for the sake of his own sanity. </p><p>Reaching into his pocket, Taeyong pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He doesn’t smoke much, at least not anymore, but there’s no way he’s going to make it through tonight without something to take the edge off. Breathing in deeply, Taeyong pulls at the cig, watching the tail glow orange momentarily. His head instantly feels lighter, the fog in his brain clearing up slowly. God, he’s missed this. Taking another puff, he lets his mind wander to Doyoung. Was he not here? He was definitely invited, Taeyong is sure of this. So why wasn’t he here, looking for Taeyong, seeking him out? </p><p>Stamping out the last of his cig in the ashtray, Taeyong tucks the packet into his jeans, heading back downstairs towards the kitchen. </p><p>‘Oh, look, speak of the Devil,’ Mina giggles, pointing at Taeyong.  </p><p>There’s a small crowd of familiar looking people gathered around the counter as Taeyong walks in. </p><p>‘You were talking about me?’ Taeyong raises his eyebrows. Minho and Taeil exchange a look. </p><p>Seulgi laughs, tilting her head back to brush her hair to one side. ‘We were just saying that you’re a very secretive person. And that you probably lead a fascinating double-life as an assassin,’ </p><p>‘And also that your eyes could freeze a lake,’ Mina continues, evidently drunk. </p><p>‘That’s enough,’ The voice comes from behind him and it doesn’t take Taeyong longer than a second to realise who it belongs to. </p><p>‘Doyoung Kim,’ Seulgi grins, beckoning him over. ‘Heard you killed your practicals.’ </p><p>Taeyong stands rooted to his spot, unable to turn around because the truth is Doyoung’s voice is enough to paralyse him. Fortunately for him, Doyoung seems to have no such qualms, reaching out for Taeyong’s hand in a flash, smiling apologetically at the rest of the group. </p><p>‘You guys need to stop gossiping, I think,’ He says, and you would have to know Doyoung really well to know this smile meant nothing. </p><p>His hands are still clasped around Taeyong’s as he leads them out onto the porch. </p><p>‘Hey,’ He finally says, looking Taeyong in the eye.</p><p>‘Hey,’ Taeyong says, and it takes everything in him to not reach up and hug Doyoung right then and there. ‘I’ve missed you.’ </p><p>And it’s here, on the outskirts of Johnny’s party, with the faint drum of loud EDM music pulsing behind them, that Taeyong realises he likes Doyoung very much.  He likes everything about him. He likes that Doyoung never forces him to speak, always asks him for permission in the subtlest of ways. He likes that Doyoung communicates in long stares and varying smiles. He likes the curve of Doyoung’s neck and the clean tilt of his eyes and the small scar on his cheek. Taeyong likes everything. He’s so busy, standing in front of Doyoung now, trying to commit every detail of his appearance to memory, that he doesn’t notice the way Doyoung stares back at him, concerned </p><p>‘I don’t believe them, you know,’ Doyoung’s fingernails are digging into his palms and when he looks up at Taeyong, everything else around him falls silent. ‘What the girls said about you in there. I don’t believe it.’ </p><p>‘Why not?’ Taeyong’s voice is barely a murmur, and if they hadn’t been standing this close, Doyoung would have probably not heard him. ‘It’s probably true. I think I lack a fundamental warmth.’ </p><p>‘No, I know you,’ Doyoung says, and he doesn’t realize he's drunk and whispering until he is. ‘And I’m thankful for what the water gave me.’ </p><p>Taeyong looks into Doyoung’s eyes. They’re clear pools of black, honest and forthcoming in their ability to stare into Taeyong’s soul and discern the darkest of secrets he keeps hidden there. </p><p>‘Do you want to get out of here?’ Taeyong asks, feeling his emotions crescent into something unidentifiable. </p><p>A few seconds go by. And then Doyoung is nodding, reaching out for his hand in the dark. </p><p>‘Let’s go,’ He whispers. </p><p>***</p><p>They’re back in the manor, because that’s where Taeyong feels the safest. Doyoung doesn't complain, letting him lead the way as if he can sense the aura of nervousness Taeyong is exuding. </p><p>Taeyong’s room feels unfamiliar all of a sudden and his bed looks frightening, like it’s telling him to stay away. </p><p>‘Can I ask you something?’ Doyoung says, sitting down at the edge of the mattress. </p><p>‘Sure...’ </p><p>‘Why do you keep pushing me away?’ Doyoung is looking at him now, no trace of pretense in his gaze. This game they were playing didn’t have rules, and Doyoung for one, didn’t care much for distractions anyway. He’s pretty sure Taeyong knows this too, judging by the way the older boy stares back at him plainly, not saying anything. </p><p>‘Doyoung Kim,’ He finally murmurs. ‘I don’t mean to be deprecating, but the truth is that I’m damaged goods.’ </p><p>Doyoung’s fingernails are digging into his palms and when he looks up at Taeyong, it’s like all the wind has been knocked out of his lungs and suddenly he can’t breathe.  </p><p>‘I like you,’ Taeyong’s voice is barely a whisper. ‘But I’m hiding so much from you.’ </p><p>Doyoung’s eyes are trained on him, and when he inches closer, it’s like all of Taeyong’s breathing has stopped completely. He’s so focussed on trying to stay calm that he barely notices when Doyoung slots his fingers through his, gripping his hand tight enough to feel his pulse quickening. The slope of Doyoung’s flat stomach, the indentations above his hips, the muscles in his arms; Taeyong feels like he has every part of him memorized. </p><p>Music fills the air without effort, like waves filling holes in beach sand; the sound rushing in and around Taeyong, hijacking his thoughts until there’s nothing left except Doyoung. He’s so beautiful, Taeyong thinks. So good, so kind. This is the best of Taeyong’s magical abilities and it hasn’t come to him in years. The melody is deep, soothing, sweet like honey. It surges through him, purging his blues and replacing them with a feeling of lightness, like he’s floating around in empty space.  Doyoung’s fringe is flopping over his forehead and it takes all of Taeyong’s willpower to not reach out and push it back. </p><p>‘I’m sad, hard to love, frankly terrible to be around in any capacity,’ Taeyong continues, bitterness rising up his throat like bile. ‘And I’ve made so many mistakes, you have no idea.’ </p><p>When the music stops, the pianist’s fingers slide back against his thighs, nervously. The heat emanating off Doyoung’s body is driving Taeyong nuts. There’s a beat of silence during which he is so sure Doyoung can hear the sound of his heart beating faster and faster and faster, but the confrontation never comes. Instead, his breath hitches in his throat and all of a sudden they’re kissing. </p><p>Doyoung reaches up to press his lips against Taeyong’s. His fingers curl around the other boy’s messy hair as he leans up, brushing his tongue over Taeyong’s bottom lip without much preamble, making him moan silently in the back of his throat. </p><p>‘I’m not breaking the rules,’ Doyoung mutters breathlessly into Taeyong’s mouth, hands tracing the planes of his back, slowly, gently, pulling him onto the bed with him. ‘This is a feel-better kiss.’ </p><p>‘Okay,’ Taeyong whispers, and he’s kissing the corner of Doyoung’s mouth, moving down to suck his neck gently. Doyoung lets out a low groan and it goes straight down between his legs. ‘But you should know, I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met you.’ </p><p>He’s practically straddling Doyoung at this point, their kisses turning into something dirtier and Taeyong is seeing so many stars, it’s hard to think, really. He cards his hands through Doyoung’s soft hair and it’s so much better than he imagined. </p><p>‘Do you think––’ </p><p>‘Doyoung,’ Taeyong’s voice sounds rough and low, like he’s smoked fifty cigarettes. ‘You started this. Please don’t ask me to stop now.’ </p><p>So Doyoung doesn’t. He lets Taeyong wrap his thighs around him and gently cup his cheek. His hand instinctively reaches around the sorcerer's neck, pulling him in closer and closer, until he’s completely in Doyoung’s lap.  </p><p>‘You smell good,’ He mumbles incoherently into Taeyong’s neck, voice still low and heady from making out. </p><p>‘It’s the marigold, I was scrying before this,’ Taeyong murmurs between kisses, placing a hand on Doyoung’s hip, holding him there as they ignore the mounting problem beneath them.</p><p>‘You’re so close to a breakthrough. I want everyone to know how talented my sorcerer is,’ Doyoung whispers, licking a stripe across Taeyong’s jawline. </p><p>My sorcerer. The words do a backflip inside Taeyong’s stomach and suddenly he can’t breathe. </p><p>‘Wait. Stop,’ Taeyong mumbles, clamping his teeth as he rests his head in the crook of Doyoung’s shoulder. The mention of scrying sits heavy in his chest like a weighted rock. Leaning back, he pushes himself out of Doyoung’s lap, respiring heavily. His brain feels cloudy and his chest rises and falls with increasing velocity as the panic threatens to engulf him. </p><p>‘Hyung,’ Doyoung mutters gently, coaxing Taeyong back into his arms. ‘Look at me. Look at me.’ </p><p>He tilts his head to face Doyoung, tears predictably spilling onto his cheeks. He hates that he’s like this. Volatile. Emotions swinging at the click of a finger. </p><p>‘I know who you are,’ He says, brushing his eyes, cupping Taeyong’s face with a tenderness that Taeyong thinks he will never understand. ‘There is nothing you can say to me that will change that.’ </p><p>‘I am not a good person, Doyoung,’ He responds, weakly. </p><p>‘You will find that it doesn’t matter to me,’ </p><p>Taeyong has kissed other boys before, but not like this. It feels different now when Doyoung licks into his mouth, kissing him slowly, finding the spots that make him squirm and moan. They move quickly, Taeyong shifting himself onto the bed and underneath Doyoung’s slender frame. His shirt falls open all the way, and Taeyong pulls it off his shoulders with practiced ease, leaning in to kiss Doyoung’s jawline, right where his chin meets his neck. </p><p>‘Tell me if it’s too much. We can stop,’ Doyoung mumbles into his mouth, fingers tangled in Taeyong’s hair. </p><p>The hold Taeyong has on Doyoung’s neck tightens, and he leans back for a moment, drinking in the sight of his swollen lips and blown-out pupils. Then he whispers, ‘Do you want to stop?’</p><p>‘No.’</p><p>‘Good.’ Taeyong reaches down, pulling him close to his face again, kissing him slowly. ‘Neither do I.’ </p><p>‘Taeyong,’ It’s the first time Doyoung says his name. The action feels oddly intimate, like he’s finally admitting to himself that this is happening. If there’s any part of him that is skeptical of his feelings for the other boy, it crumbles beneath the weight of his gaze now. Nobody has treated him this way before, with unconditional trust despite knowing the darkness he holds within him. </p><p>‘Say it again,’ </p><p>‘What?’ </p><p>‘My name,’ </p><p>‘Taeyong,’ </p><p>‘Again,’ </p><p><em>‘Hyung!’</em> </p><p>Taeyong scowls, pushing Doyoung off him. But soon there are placating kisses pressed to his neck and chest, and then his stomach and the space between his thighs; there are long fingers that slide inside him, teasing him open, followed by hushed moans that turn into Taeyong panting under the weight of Doyoung’s frame, pleading for him not to stop, to keep going, keep going, keep going. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some notes on the plot: Pixies use dark magic or necromancy. Sorcerors use "good" magic. The political tensions between the two result in the data-leak scandal of the 90's, where Pixies distribute restricted magical knowledge amongst mortals. As the relationship grows hostile, more Pixies are executed around this time owing to a sorcerors majority and an all-powerful Coven. The year Taeyong turns 18, the riots begin again. </p><p>The next chapter will focus on Doyoung's Reaper connections and Taeyong's past. More on this and Ten's ghostly return coming soon. </p><p>Eat well &amp; stay happy xx</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have some stuff written. It's not very good, but I will try to keep the updates rolling. xx</p></blockquote></div></div>
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